FIC: Twenty-five days (part 2)
(back to part 1)
******
Day 5
It had taken two days before the Marshals agreed to deliver Mara Summers to FBI headquarters.
"Please, have a seat," Peter said, as she was brought to the interrogation room.
"Agent Burke, while I appreciate the opportunity to leave my home, I'm not sure why you've requested this visit, other than you've stated that it's not about my upcoming trial. Should I call my lawyer?"
"That's certainly your right, but I'm not here to discuss your case or to charge you with anything new. I want to talk to you about Neal Caffrey. If you think you need your lawyer, I'll have someone place a call for you."
"I'll keep that option open. What do you want to know about him?"
"You told him he was a sociopath. Is he?"
"HIPAA doesn't allow me to discuss it with you."
"I have his medical power of attorney, and the privacy provision of the act doesn't apply in this case."
She stared at him for a few seconds.
"Very well then, yes, Mr. Caffrey most definitely suffers from antisocial personality disorder. He uses charm to manipulate others, he's a liar and a thief, he's impulsive, and he feels no guilt. He takes unnecessary risks, he has no regard for right and wrong. You of all people should see that."
Peter was taken aback with that description. "That does sound like Neal."
"Is that really what you want from me, Agent Burke? A psych evaluation of your CI?"
Peter nodded. "Neal disappeared a few days ago. I wouldn't have expected him to have run off."
"It makes perfect sense. He would have considered only himself, and not what this would have done to anyone else. He's probably been planning this for months."
"Yes, he did excel at the long con," said Peter, recalling how Neal might have had a chance with Adler had he not given his heart to Kate. "But, actually, there is evidence that he was taken against his will."
Her eyebrows twitched momentarily. "Evidence? What kind of evidence?" she asked after a brief pause.
"Well, it's more a matter of what we're not finding than what we are."
"Such as?"
Peter stood and looked down at her, the trace of a smile on his lips. "Nothing relevant to his state of mind, I'm sure. Thank you for your time and your insight. Agent Wesley will bring you back home."
She looked confused as Peter walked her to the door.
"That's all you wanted to discuss?"
"I got what I needed, thank you."
He stopped smiling the moment she was escorted from the room.
"What did you think, Diana?" he asked after Summers and Wesley were in the elevator.
"She asked about the evidence for Neal's kidnapping awfully fast instead of arguing for her diagnosis," Diana replied as she stepped into the interrogation room.
"Agreed. She looked surprised when I mentioned it. My gut tells me she has some involvement."
"Was Neal supposed to testify against her?"
"No, the DA is able to prove his case without Neal. I doubt he's even on the list of potential witnesses."
"Does she know that?"
Peter tilted his head. "I have no idea. It would make for motive, though."
***********
By his fifth day of captivity Neal realized just how thoroughly screwed he was. On the third day, his first day awake, he proposed forging two paintings - a Picasso (that Mozzie would recognize as one he’d forged a couple of months before he went to prison), and a Degas (that both Peter and Mozzie would clearly remember from the sub). Neal had suggested that they sell the first to buy the supplies he'd need to forge the passport, with a decent amount of cash left over. The second painting would set her up financially for a very long time. He gave her a list of supplies he'd need to make the paintings, including paints, brushes, canvases, a drying oven, ancillary materials, and natural light. Maybe a fan to help alleviate the stuffiness in the room. He also asked for a few personal items, including a toothbrush and toothpaste, soap, linens, and clothes.
Neal mentioned several fences that specialized in these types of works but Boots rejected all of Neal’s suggestions, without saying whether Mara already someone to broker the sale of the paintings. The problem Neal foresaw with not knowing who she was dealing with was that Mozzie or Peter might then never see these particular paintings.
He was left alone yesterday. He used the time to carefully inspect every inch of his prison. It was a small, windowless cinderblock room, maybe ten feet by 16 feet, with a small alcove holding a sink and a toilet. He assumed he was in a basement, and guessed it might be Summers' house. The door was in the middle of the short wall and opened out, so the hinges were on the opposite side. Of course there was no doorknob. An aluminum framed canvas camp cot with a single sheet was the sole piece of furniture. There were two wall outlets, one of which held a night light. As he’d discovered the day before, there was a two-way speaker over the door. An overhead plastic fixture held a single light bulb that shone with all of its 40 watt incandescent glory, and typically came on just before someone entered his room. There was nothing else in the room or on the walls or ceiling. Most noticeable by its absence was any ventilation system, except for the opening of the door. It went a long way to explaining the low grade headache he couldn’t shake, unless Boots came by for a visit.
When Boots brought food in yesterday (lunch? dinner? Neal could hardly tell) he gave Neal the soap, toothpaste and towels he'd asked for, nixed the toothbrush as having the potential to be made into a knife (someone watches too much television, Neal thought), and told him he’d have to earn the clothes. Neal was just irritated enough that he decided he’d wash what he was wearing in the sink instead. The issue of an adequate air supply never came up.
***
Day 6
Boots showed up with the canvas, paints, brushes, easel, and most of the other materials Neal had asked for. He also brought in an extension cord and three high-intensity lamps that were going to have to do for light, otherwise he'd be happy to find Neal's little friend for inspiration. Or maybe the lovely older woman who lived in that pretty house on Riverside Drive. Neal only glanced at him as he set up his workspace.
"You're going to watch me?" Neal asked when he realized Boots set up a chair just beyond the door.
"Just making sure you don't cut yourself with the lights. Accidentally, of course."
Or more likely afraid he'd make a shiv out of a paintbrush, Neal thought, remembering Summer' excuse about the toothbrush. Although he wasn't thrilled about the audience, the trade-off of having breathable air made up for it.
Neal pushed himself as long as he could but after about six hours he stopped. His eyes were burning and his headache had returned with a vengeance, because even with the door open the vapors from the paints and solvents were overwhelming in the small space. The lights, although good for color precision, were too bright and focused, and they only added to the pounding behind his eyes.
"I'll finish this tomorrow morning, then I'll age it as soon as you bring in the oven," Neal told Boots as he started cleaning his brushes.
"It looks almost done to me," Boots replied. "How much more you got to go on this?"
Neal appeared to study his work. "About two more hours."
"Well, maybe you might get fed tonight after you put two more hours into finishing your work here."
Neal stared at him. "It's not happening. Tomorrow it will be finished properly. Tonight I'll only make mistakes. I assume she wants this done right, so if you want to tell her why it couldn't wait a half day, go ahead. I can't do any more tonight."
"That's fine, Mr. Caffrey," came Summers' disembodied voice through the speaker. "Clean up and give everything to my assistant, then we'll see about getting you something to eat."
In the end Neal had to put everything on a cart and pass it toward Boots, who held a gun on Neal with one hand while he pulled the cart through the door with the other.
"See you later," he said, just before he locked Neal in the room.
A little while later the door opened, and Boots brought in dinner. Not surprisingly, it was another sandwich requiring no utensils. What Neal wasn't expecting was that it was a decent cut of beef served on a chunk of French bread. More surprising was that Mara Summers stood in the hallway behind Boots, examining the painting.
"This is nice," she said, nodding. "I'll let you have a fan tomorrow if you continue to cooperate."
"Why not now?" Neal asked.
"You earned dinner today. Tomorrow you may earn dinner and fresh air. It's all up to you, Mr. Caffrey." With that she walked away. Boots just grinned at Neal and locked up for the night. Someone turned out the overhead light, leaving just the night light in the room on.
Neal put the sandwich back on the paper plate, his appetite gone. He knew what she was doing and he understood why. If he were a psychopath - or the sociopath she'd accused him of being - he might have done the same thing, except he never actually set out to hurt anyone. This was not the time to over-think what she was doing and why, he told himself; her job was to break him and his was to survive. Mind and body whole, if possible. He picked up the sandwich and managed to eat about half before the headache made him too nauseous to finish it.
*****
It was close to midnight when Peter let himself into his empty house. He missed his wife, he missed his dog. He missed his friend. He was frustrated by what he perceived as the lack of progress in finding Neal. It was moments like this, when he was exhausted and alone, that his mind wandered over to the dark recesses that said Neal and Mozzie were playing him. He preferred that thought, though, to the even darker one - that Neal was dead, and he'd never see him - his best friend after Elizabeth - again.
To make matters worse, Hughes had called him into his office earlier that evening.
"Do we have surveillance on the Mara Summers house?"
"Yes, I authorized a detail yesterday."
"Well, unauthorize it. We just got a cease-and-desist order. Her lawyer thinks the tracking anklet is more than sufficient monitoring and the court agreed."
Peter shook his head. They might know where Mara Summers was at all times, but he was more interested in who came and went.
Almost as if Mozzie knew that Peter was home (and for all Peter knew, maybe Mozzie did) his cell phone buzzed. It was Mozzie, of course, and he was using the same phone he had been since Neal went missing. Peter found it comforting that Neal's oddly endearing friend put aside his usual paranoia to reach out to Peter and his team regularly with no attempts to hide behind burner phones and secret codes.
"Moz, any good news?"
"No news yet, but that segues into the reason for my call. As you might imagine, I have many contacts in what you'd probably refer to as the "grey areas" of our fair city. I've pulled every favor from every contact I have to get any information they have or might find out about Neal's disappearance. I think whoever took him wants something from him, because if they wanted him d - ." Mozzie paused and took a deep breath. "If they wanted to hurt him, it would have happened already and they would have made sure we knew about it."
"That makes sense."
"And in case favors aren't enough, June's put up a sizeable reward for information, and a much more significant one for his safe return."
For the first time in a few days Peter started to feel hopeful again.
***
Day 10
Neal had completed the Picasso forgery three days ago. He should be nearly finished with the Degas, and would have been, if he'd felt the need to work more quickly, if his eyes weren't burning from the lights and fumes, if he didn't have a constant headache and light-headedness, if he didn't know that Mara Summers would have him killed as soon as he finished this painting and her passport.
It was the end of the day and she'd come to the doorway for her customary examination of his work.
"This is lovely, Mr. Caffrey, but I don't see a great deal of progress compared to yesterday. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were dragging your feet on this one."
"Did you sell the Picasso?" he asked. "Did the fence say anything about the aging of the canvas?" Neal had thought the piece had spent a little too long in the oven. He had wanted to personally handle the aging process, but Summers was very clear that that wasn't going to happen. Neal was forced to give detailed instruction to Boots on how to do it, and as much as Neal argued for his need to watch it himself, Summers would not move on that point. This led Neal to believe that the oven they were using was not in this building, because if it was her house, any law enforcement official could stop by at any time, and it would be hard to explain the scent of baking oil paints coming from the kitchen.
"You're changing the subject. Do you honestly think I'd let that slip by? Very well, since you asked, no, I didn't sell it yet. I don't actually need to. I can store this for a couple of years before I need to move it. And don't think I didn't know you were trying to get me to use a fence who would recognize your work. Between that and your slowness, you may need to lose some privileges."
"Privileges? What privileges? Two meals a day and about half the air I need to work?"
She stared a Neal, a slow smile forming.
"Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention this. I met with Peter Burke a few days ago. Do you know, he's convinced that you ran. Since they think you left the country, Interpol is doing most of the heavy lifting. The FBI's search is cursory, at best."
Neal couldn't help himself from blurting out a response.
"You're lying." He moved toward her, an angry look on his face.
She nodded to Boots. Neal was so focused on Summers that he didn't notice the stun gun in Boots' raised right hand until it was late to stop.
"That's definitely going to cost you some privileges," she said as Neal fell to the ground.
***
Day 12
Neal woke up to the sound of the door closing and the smell of fresh coffee. His head was pounding, his body ached all over and he knew she had drugged him after hitting him with stun gun. He downed the coffee, then started picking at the cinnamon bun and grapes that had been left on a paper plate on the floor. He had no idea of how much time he'd lost, and could only assume it was some morning of the decreasing number of days he had left in which to forge a passport. For which he had no materials or equipment to make. He still needed to finish the Degas, although it seemed pointless if she wasn't planning on selling the paintings any time soon. And until or unless he could keep his hands from shaking there would be no way this forgery would look anything like a "Neal Caffrey" piece, so even if she was caught, no one would connect her to him through the painting.
He sighed and took a few breaths as deeply as he could.
"I'd like to get back to work," he called through the speaker. "And, we have to talk about the passport."
*****
Peter hung up from his telephone call with Matthew Keller feeling as if he needed a shower. The more contact he had with the man the less he could imagine Neal ever working with him. Yet in spite of his innuendo and sleaze Peter was convinced that, not only did Keller have nothing to do with Neal's disappearance, he was unaware of it until today.
Peter crossed off the last name on the board besides Mara Summers. Rachel Turner had agreed to see him the day before yesterday and she, too, had nothing to offer. He inhaled heavily and picked up and stared into his half-full cup of cold coffee. Suddenly he slammed it onto the conference room table, walked out the door and through the bullpen, taking the stairs instead of the elevator down from the 21st floor.
Diana and Jones exchanged looks.
"I don't know what's left to do," she said.
"We're absolutely certain that no one that's been crossed off our list has anything to do with this, right? I mean, we've got corroborating evidence for every one of their claims that they weren't involved with this. No one we've interviewed had any unusual visitors or outside communications in the six months prior to Neal's kidnapping that would let them set something like this up. That leaves Mara Summers, among the people that we know of. It doesn't help us if there's someone from Neal's past that hasn't crossed our path."
"Let's try to approach this like Neal would. We've looked at Mara Summers and worked our way out from her. What if we see what we can trace to her instead of from her?"
"And what would she want Neal for," Jones said, picking up from Diana's thoughts. "She'd want revenge, but since we've seized all her assets she'd probably need money, too. If you had your hands on one of the best forgers in the world, wouldn't you want them to create some art for you?"
"Yeah, and she probably doesn't have a lot of materials on hand, so she'd need to make some purchases."
"But she doesn't have any money."
"But she had a lot of patients who would have known how to hide money. I'll bet she does have secret bank accounts or hidden cash," Diana continued.
"If it's cash, someone would have to bring it to her. If she has electronic funds, there has to be a cyber trail. If she wants Neal to forge something, why don't we start by looking for recent purchases of everything we know he's used in the past to forge paintings, sculptures, and bonds. Any purchase since the twelfth and delivered to one of the five boroughs and Long Island."
"That's a lot of looking. Good thing we have probies," Diana grinned.
***
Summers stood in the doorway while Boots wheeled in Neal's painting and supplies.
"This will be finished by the end of today, then I'll be ready to age it," Neal said to Summers. "Have it aged," he said when she glared at him. "I wasn't happy at all with the Picasso. Either the temperature was a few degrees too high or it was left in too long. This can't get screwed up. When it's done, when we're both happy with it, I'll give you a list of what I'll need for your new passport."
"What's wrong with now for that list? It's not your first one, I'm sure," said Boots, angered by Neal's criticism.
"No," Neal said, looking directly at Summers. "Of course it's not. But it's been a while, I need to concentrate on the exact specs for the inks and materials, and, quite honestly, I can't focus on anything right now." He squeezed his temples. "I don't have to be one hundred percent to duplicate a Degas. I do for a passport. It won't take too long to make - a few days, but I have to be clearheaded, and I haven't been for a while."
"Alright," Summers answered after a few seconds. "After we see the Degas we'll decide what we can do. But, Neal, if you're lying to me, you will not be happy with the consequences."
***
Feeling chagrined over his earlier outburst Peter returned to the office about two hours later, carrying a cardboard tray with three cups of coffee, to find Diana, Jones, and every probie they could get their hands on in the conference room. Mozzie was there, too, taking a small stack of paper from the printer and handing it to Diana.
"This is every piece of equipment and supply Neal's used for every alleged forgery I've ever seen him do. I hope this is helpful, Lady Suit."
"There have to be - " she flipped through the pages - "a thousand items here."
"Twelve-hundred and ninety, give or take. They're grouped by medium. If he's sculpting, he'll need these items," Mozzie said, indicating a section toward the middle. "Paintings and drawings are all here up front, but I'd personally narrow it down to supplies for oils, since that always seemed to be his favorite. Gemstones are toward the back. Documents are in the last section."
"Alright, let's split these up. Peter, you're just in time," Jones said, noticing his boss in the doorway.
"Did something happen while I was gone?"
"We had a 'What Would Neal Do' moment, which morphed into a 'What Might Neal Be Doing Right Now' and so we called in Mozzie. We're going to see if anyone bought anything Neal used in his forgeries, and try to trace it back to Mara Summers - or anyone, really," Jones said.
"You're looking for anyone who bought some combination of almost thirteen-hundred different art supplies in the past two weeks? Couldn't that be thousands of people from thousands of retailers?"
"Yup," replied Diana. "Hence the probies. They're going to be doing the on-line research. We're going to have our staff visit the stores here in the city in person."
"You didn't manage to get a warrant for this, did you?"
"No, we thought we'd start out by asking nicely. Hey, it could work. We are the FBI."
Peter nodded his head.
"If Neal is forging anything, it would probably be something he'd want us to find. Mozzie, can you highlight anything he'd need for a Monet, Degas, Raphael, I don't know, who else did he like to copy a lot? Sculpture might be a little harder to sell. This is good - really good. Thank you for getting this moving. I just - " he shook his head - "I hit a wall."
Mozzie walked over to Peter and put his hand on his shoulder.
"We're going to find him, Peter."
"Yes, we will." He looked around the room, at his two senior agents, all the eager young probies, and the White Collar staff of all levels of experience.
"I guess I'm going to need more coffee."
___________________________________
continued
******
Day 5
It had taken two days before the Marshals agreed to deliver Mara Summers to FBI headquarters.
"Please, have a seat," Peter said, as she was brought to the interrogation room.
"Agent Burke, while I appreciate the opportunity to leave my home, I'm not sure why you've requested this visit, other than you've stated that it's not about my upcoming trial. Should I call my lawyer?"
"That's certainly your right, but I'm not here to discuss your case or to charge you with anything new. I want to talk to you about Neal Caffrey. If you think you need your lawyer, I'll have someone place a call for you."
"I'll keep that option open. What do you want to know about him?"
"You told him he was a sociopath. Is he?"
"HIPAA doesn't allow me to discuss it with you."
"I have his medical power of attorney, and the privacy provision of the act doesn't apply in this case."
She stared at him for a few seconds.
"Very well then, yes, Mr. Caffrey most definitely suffers from antisocial personality disorder. He uses charm to manipulate others, he's a liar and a thief, he's impulsive, and he feels no guilt. He takes unnecessary risks, he has no regard for right and wrong. You of all people should see that."
Peter was taken aback with that description. "That does sound like Neal."
"Is that really what you want from me, Agent Burke? A psych evaluation of your CI?"
Peter nodded. "Neal disappeared a few days ago. I wouldn't have expected him to have run off."
"It makes perfect sense. He would have considered only himself, and not what this would have done to anyone else. He's probably been planning this for months."
"Yes, he did excel at the long con," said Peter, recalling how Neal might have had a chance with Adler had he not given his heart to Kate. "But, actually, there is evidence that he was taken against his will."
Her eyebrows twitched momentarily. "Evidence? What kind of evidence?" she asked after a brief pause.
"Well, it's more a matter of what we're not finding than what we are."
"Such as?"
Peter stood and looked down at her, the trace of a smile on his lips. "Nothing relevant to his state of mind, I'm sure. Thank you for your time and your insight. Agent Wesley will bring you back home."
She looked confused as Peter walked her to the door.
"That's all you wanted to discuss?"
"I got what I needed, thank you."
He stopped smiling the moment she was escorted from the room.
"What did you think, Diana?" he asked after Summers and Wesley were in the elevator.
"She asked about the evidence for Neal's kidnapping awfully fast instead of arguing for her diagnosis," Diana replied as she stepped into the interrogation room.
"Agreed. She looked surprised when I mentioned it. My gut tells me she has some involvement."
"Was Neal supposed to testify against her?"
"No, the DA is able to prove his case without Neal. I doubt he's even on the list of potential witnesses."
"Does she know that?"
Peter tilted his head. "I have no idea. It would make for motive, though."
***********
By his fifth day of captivity Neal realized just how thoroughly screwed he was. On the third day, his first day awake, he proposed forging two paintings - a Picasso (that Mozzie would recognize as one he’d forged a couple of months before he went to prison), and a Degas (that both Peter and Mozzie would clearly remember from the sub). Neal had suggested that they sell the first to buy the supplies he'd need to forge the passport, with a decent amount of cash left over. The second painting would set her up financially for a very long time. He gave her a list of supplies he'd need to make the paintings, including paints, brushes, canvases, a drying oven, ancillary materials, and natural light. Maybe a fan to help alleviate the stuffiness in the room. He also asked for a few personal items, including a toothbrush and toothpaste, soap, linens, and clothes.
Neal mentioned several fences that specialized in these types of works but Boots rejected all of Neal’s suggestions, without saying whether Mara already someone to broker the sale of the paintings. The problem Neal foresaw with not knowing who she was dealing with was that Mozzie or Peter might then never see these particular paintings.
He was left alone yesterday. He used the time to carefully inspect every inch of his prison. It was a small, windowless cinderblock room, maybe ten feet by 16 feet, with a small alcove holding a sink and a toilet. He assumed he was in a basement, and guessed it might be Summers' house. The door was in the middle of the short wall and opened out, so the hinges were on the opposite side. Of course there was no doorknob. An aluminum framed canvas camp cot with a single sheet was the sole piece of furniture. There were two wall outlets, one of which held a night light. As he’d discovered the day before, there was a two-way speaker over the door. An overhead plastic fixture held a single light bulb that shone with all of its 40 watt incandescent glory, and typically came on just before someone entered his room. There was nothing else in the room or on the walls or ceiling. Most noticeable by its absence was any ventilation system, except for the opening of the door. It went a long way to explaining the low grade headache he couldn’t shake, unless Boots came by for a visit.
When Boots brought food in yesterday (lunch? dinner? Neal could hardly tell) he gave Neal the soap, toothpaste and towels he'd asked for, nixed the toothbrush as having the potential to be made into a knife (someone watches too much television, Neal thought), and told him he’d have to earn the clothes. Neal was just irritated enough that he decided he’d wash what he was wearing in the sink instead. The issue of an adequate air supply never came up.
***
Day 6
Boots showed up with the canvas, paints, brushes, easel, and most of the other materials Neal had asked for. He also brought in an extension cord and three high-intensity lamps that were going to have to do for light, otherwise he'd be happy to find Neal's little friend for inspiration. Or maybe the lovely older woman who lived in that pretty house on Riverside Drive. Neal only glanced at him as he set up his workspace.
"You're going to watch me?" Neal asked when he realized Boots set up a chair just beyond the door.
"Just making sure you don't cut yourself with the lights. Accidentally, of course."
Or more likely afraid he'd make a shiv out of a paintbrush, Neal thought, remembering Summer' excuse about the toothbrush. Although he wasn't thrilled about the audience, the trade-off of having breathable air made up for it.
Neal pushed himself as long as he could but after about six hours he stopped. His eyes were burning and his headache had returned with a vengeance, because even with the door open the vapors from the paints and solvents were overwhelming in the small space. The lights, although good for color precision, were too bright and focused, and they only added to the pounding behind his eyes.
"I'll finish this tomorrow morning, then I'll age it as soon as you bring in the oven," Neal told Boots as he started cleaning his brushes.
"It looks almost done to me," Boots replied. "How much more you got to go on this?"
Neal appeared to study his work. "About two more hours."
"Well, maybe you might get fed tonight after you put two more hours into finishing your work here."
Neal stared at him. "It's not happening. Tomorrow it will be finished properly. Tonight I'll only make mistakes. I assume she wants this done right, so if you want to tell her why it couldn't wait a half day, go ahead. I can't do any more tonight."
"That's fine, Mr. Caffrey," came Summers' disembodied voice through the speaker. "Clean up and give everything to my assistant, then we'll see about getting you something to eat."
In the end Neal had to put everything on a cart and pass it toward Boots, who held a gun on Neal with one hand while he pulled the cart through the door with the other.
"See you later," he said, just before he locked Neal in the room.
A little while later the door opened, and Boots brought in dinner. Not surprisingly, it was another sandwich requiring no utensils. What Neal wasn't expecting was that it was a decent cut of beef served on a chunk of French bread. More surprising was that Mara Summers stood in the hallway behind Boots, examining the painting.
"This is nice," she said, nodding. "I'll let you have a fan tomorrow if you continue to cooperate."
"Why not now?" Neal asked.
"You earned dinner today. Tomorrow you may earn dinner and fresh air. It's all up to you, Mr. Caffrey." With that she walked away. Boots just grinned at Neal and locked up for the night. Someone turned out the overhead light, leaving just the night light in the room on.
Neal put the sandwich back on the paper plate, his appetite gone. He knew what she was doing and he understood why. If he were a psychopath - or the sociopath she'd accused him of being - he might have done the same thing, except he never actually set out to hurt anyone. This was not the time to over-think what she was doing and why, he told himself; her job was to break him and his was to survive. Mind and body whole, if possible. He picked up the sandwich and managed to eat about half before the headache made him too nauseous to finish it.
*****
It was close to midnight when Peter let himself into his empty house. He missed his wife, he missed his dog. He missed his friend. He was frustrated by what he perceived as the lack of progress in finding Neal. It was moments like this, when he was exhausted and alone, that his mind wandered over to the dark recesses that said Neal and Mozzie were playing him. He preferred that thought, though, to the even darker one - that Neal was dead, and he'd never see him - his best friend after Elizabeth - again.
To make matters worse, Hughes had called him into his office earlier that evening.
"Do we have surveillance on the Mara Summers house?"
"Yes, I authorized a detail yesterday."
"Well, unauthorize it. We just got a cease-and-desist order. Her lawyer thinks the tracking anklet is more than sufficient monitoring and the court agreed."
Peter shook his head. They might know where Mara Summers was at all times, but he was more interested in who came and went.
Almost as if Mozzie knew that Peter was home (and for all Peter knew, maybe Mozzie did) his cell phone buzzed. It was Mozzie, of course, and he was using the same phone he had been since Neal went missing. Peter found it comforting that Neal's oddly endearing friend put aside his usual paranoia to reach out to Peter and his team regularly with no attempts to hide behind burner phones and secret codes.
"Moz, any good news?"
"No news yet, but that segues into the reason for my call. As you might imagine, I have many contacts in what you'd probably refer to as the "grey areas" of our fair city. I've pulled every favor from every contact I have to get any information they have or might find out about Neal's disappearance. I think whoever took him wants something from him, because if they wanted him d - ." Mozzie paused and took a deep breath. "If they wanted to hurt him, it would have happened already and they would have made sure we knew about it."
"That makes sense."
"And in case favors aren't enough, June's put up a sizeable reward for information, and a much more significant one for his safe return."
For the first time in a few days Peter started to feel hopeful again.
***
Day 10
Neal had completed the Picasso forgery three days ago. He should be nearly finished with the Degas, and would have been, if he'd felt the need to work more quickly, if his eyes weren't burning from the lights and fumes, if he didn't have a constant headache and light-headedness, if he didn't know that Mara Summers would have him killed as soon as he finished this painting and her passport.
It was the end of the day and she'd come to the doorway for her customary examination of his work.
"This is lovely, Mr. Caffrey, but I don't see a great deal of progress compared to yesterday. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were dragging your feet on this one."
"Did you sell the Picasso?" he asked. "Did the fence say anything about the aging of the canvas?" Neal had thought the piece had spent a little too long in the oven. He had wanted to personally handle the aging process, but Summers was very clear that that wasn't going to happen. Neal was forced to give detailed instruction to Boots on how to do it, and as much as Neal argued for his need to watch it himself, Summers would not move on that point. This led Neal to believe that the oven they were using was not in this building, because if it was her house, any law enforcement official could stop by at any time, and it would be hard to explain the scent of baking oil paints coming from the kitchen.
"You're changing the subject. Do you honestly think I'd let that slip by? Very well, since you asked, no, I didn't sell it yet. I don't actually need to. I can store this for a couple of years before I need to move it. And don't think I didn't know you were trying to get me to use a fence who would recognize your work. Between that and your slowness, you may need to lose some privileges."
"Privileges? What privileges? Two meals a day and about half the air I need to work?"
She stared a Neal, a slow smile forming.
"Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention this. I met with Peter Burke a few days ago. Do you know, he's convinced that you ran. Since they think you left the country, Interpol is doing most of the heavy lifting. The FBI's search is cursory, at best."
Neal couldn't help himself from blurting out a response.
"You're lying." He moved toward her, an angry look on his face.
She nodded to Boots. Neal was so focused on Summers that he didn't notice the stun gun in Boots' raised right hand until it was late to stop.
"That's definitely going to cost you some privileges," she said as Neal fell to the ground.
***
Day 12
Neal woke up to the sound of the door closing and the smell of fresh coffee. His head was pounding, his body ached all over and he knew she had drugged him after hitting him with stun gun. He downed the coffee, then started picking at the cinnamon bun and grapes that had been left on a paper plate on the floor. He had no idea of how much time he'd lost, and could only assume it was some morning of the decreasing number of days he had left in which to forge a passport. For which he had no materials or equipment to make. He still needed to finish the Degas, although it seemed pointless if she wasn't planning on selling the paintings any time soon. And until or unless he could keep his hands from shaking there would be no way this forgery would look anything like a "Neal Caffrey" piece, so even if she was caught, no one would connect her to him through the painting.
He sighed and took a few breaths as deeply as he could.
"I'd like to get back to work," he called through the speaker. "And, we have to talk about the passport."
*****
Peter hung up from his telephone call with Matthew Keller feeling as if he needed a shower. The more contact he had with the man the less he could imagine Neal ever working with him. Yet in spite of his innuendo and sleaze Peter was convinced that, not only did Keller have nothing to do with Neal's disappearance, he was unaware of it until today.
Peter crossed off the last name on the board besides Mara Summers. Rachel Turner had agreed to see him the day before yesterday and she, too, had nothing to offer. He inhaled heavily and picked up and stared into his half-full cup of cold coffee. Suddenly he slammed it onto the conference room table, walked out the door and through the bullpen, taking the stairs instead of the elevator down from the 21st floor.
Diana and Jones exchanged looks.
"I don't know what's left to do," she said.
"We're absolutely certain that no one that's been crossed off our list has anything to do with this, right? I mean, we've got corroborating evidence for every one of their claims that they weren't involved with this. No one we've interviewed had any unusual visitors or outside communications in the six months prior to Neal's kidnapping that would let them set something like this up. That leaves Mara Summers, among the people that we know of. It doesn't help us if there's someone from Neal's past that hasn't crossed our path."
"Let's try to approach this like Neal would. We've looked at Mara Summers and worked our way out from her. What if we see what we can trace to her instead of from her?"
"And what would she want Neal for," Jones said, picking up from Diana's thoughts. "She'd want revenge, but since we've seized all her assets she'd probably need money, too. If you had your hands on one of the best forgers in the world, wouldn't you want them to create some art for you?"
"Yeah, and she probably doesn't have a lot of materials on hand, so she'd need to make some purchases."
"But she doesn't have any money."
"But she had a lot of patients who would have known how to hide money. I'll bet she does have secret bank accounts or hidden cash," Diana continued.
"If it's cash, someone would have to bring it to her. If she has electronic funds, there has to be a cyber trail. If she wants Neal to forge something, why don't we start by looking for recent purchases of everything we know he's used in the past to forge paintings, sculptures, and bonds. Any purchase since the twelfth and delivered to one of the five boroughs and Long Island."
"That's a lot of looking. Good thing we have probies," Diana grinned.
***
Summers stood in the doorway while Boots wheeled in Neal's painting and supplies.
"This will be finished by the end of today, then I'll be ready to age it," Neal said to Summers. "Have it aged," he said when she glared at him. "I wasn't happy at all with the Picasso. Either the temperature was a few degrees too high or it was left in too long. This can't get screwed up. When it's done, when we're both happy with it, I'll give you a list of what I'll need for your new passport."
"What's wrong with now for that list? It's not your first one, I'm sure," said Boots, angered by Neal's criticism.
"No," Neal said, looking directly at Summers. "Of course it's not. But it's been a while, I need to concentrate on the exact specs for the inks and materials, and, quite honestly, I can't focus on anything right now." He squeezed his temples. "I don't have to be one hundred percent to duplicate a Degas. I do for a passport. It won't take too long to make - a few days, but I have to be clearheaded, and I haven't been for a while."
"Alright," Summers answered after a few seconds. "After we see the Degas we'll decide what we can do. But, Neal, if you're lying to me, you will not be happy with the consequences."
***
Feeling chagrined over his earlier outburst Peter returned to the office about two hours later, carrying a cardboard tray with three cups of coffee, to find Diana, Jones, and every probie they could get their hands on in the conference room. Mozzie was there, too, taking a small stack of paper from the printer and handing it to Diana.
"This is every piece of equipment and supply Neal's used for every alleged forgery I've ever seen him do. I hope this is helpful, Lady Suit."
"There have to be - " she flipped through the pages - "a thousand items here."
"Twelve-hundred and ninety, give or take. They're grouped by medium. If he's sculpting, he'll need these items," Mozzie said, indicating a section toward the middle. "Paintings and drawings are all here up front, but I'd personally narrow it down to supplies for oils, since that always seemed to be his favorite. Gemstones are toward the back. Documents are in the last section."
"Alright, let's split these up. Peter, you're just in time," Jones said, noticing his boss in the doorway.
"Did something happen while I was gone?"
"We had a 'What Would Neal Do' moment, which morphed into a 'What Might Neal Be Doing Right Now' and so we called in Mozzie. We're going to see if anyone bought anything Neal used in his forgeries, and try to trace it back to Mara Summers - or anyone, really," Jones said.
"You're looking for anyone who bought some combination of almost thirteen-hundred different art supplies in the past two weeks? Couldn't that be thousands of people from thousands of retailers?"
"Yup," replied Diana. "Hence the probies. They're going to be doing the on-line research. We're going to have our staff visit the stores here in the city in person."
"You didn't manage to get a warrant for this, did you?"
"No, we thought we'd start out by asking nicely. Hey, it could work. We are the FBI."
Peter nodded his head.
"If Neal is forging anything, it would probably be something he'd want us to find. Mozzie, can you highlight anything he'd need for a Monet, Degas, Raphael, I don't know, who else did he like to copy a lot? Sculpture might be a little harder to sell. This is good - really good. Thank you for getting this moving. I just - " he shook his head - "I hit a wall."
Mozzie walked over to Peter and put his hand on his shoulder.
"We're going to find him, Peter."
"Yes, we will." He looked around the room, at his two senior agents, all the eager young probies, and the White Collar staff of all levels of experience.
"I guess I'm going to need more coffee."
___________________________________
continued